


Happy Halloween

by gollymissmolly



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 02:55:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2491865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gollymissmolly/pseuds/gollymissmolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's birth.. and Margaret's death</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Halloween

Margaret hadn't bothered to climb out of bed at dawn today-- or during the morning at all.  Her ankles were swollen, her back hurt and she had only just managed to find a comfortable position to sleep in- on her side with a pillow between her knees and one arm wrapped around her enormous belly- when dawn had peeked in the windows.  Malcolm left the night before, just after dinner, to travel to his next show during the night, so that he would have ample time to set up for his act during the day and-- at Margaret's insistence and with strict instructions as to  _how_  to go about it-- renegotiate with the club manager for a 10% pay increase.

She slept in, somewhat fitfully and with a discomfort that was all too common this late in her pregnancy, but eventually roused herself enough to climb (literally) out of bed, and waddle into the kitchen, barefoot, to make herself some tea a little after noon.  She rubbed her belly idly, staring out the kitchen window as she took her tea, and smiled as she felt the hard form of a little hand pressed back against hers.

"Good morning, darling.  Or should I say afternoon." She said aloud to the baby in her stomach, grown so large now that every now and then little feet or hands could be seen as silhouettes against the inside of her stomach-- an eerie sight to say the least, but not one that Margaret minded.  To her, it was her child's way of promising that all was well on their side of the matter.  "Today would be an excellent day to be born, wouldn't you agree?" She encouraged, chuckling to herself.

All Hallow's Eve was one of the most mystical and magical nights of the entire year.  She had timed her child's conception and birth to get close, but there was no way of knowing what day the baby would come.  That would be up to him (she had taken to calling it a him, despite not knowing the gender), and the best she could do was  _encourage_... though at this point she would be glad for him coming any day, and giving her body back to her, the little dictator.

It was evening by the time she had showered, dressed, eaten and finished her daily studies.  In fact, she was thinking of taking a brief walk through the Nevernever, to catch up with Lea for a moment, when the pains started.

Margaret had been in labor before, and while she had been promised that every birth was different, she was certain this was no labor pain. The sudden tightening in her chest, as if her ribcage had grown too tight, kept her from breathing and drove her to lean against a door frame, finding no air as she gasped.  Instinctively, she lay a protective hand over her stomach.

The feeling lessened, but not to the point where it disappeared.  It was simply a strange threat in the back of her mind-- and the first thing Margaret thought to check was not a medical text, but one of the many magic tomes she kept hidden around their apartment.

Another wave of pain struck- this time like fire gushing through her veins instead of blood- and left her breathless, eyes wide and unfocused towards the ceiling above her. This spasm passed also, and with tentative movements, afraid to move too quickly for fear of bringing on another attack, Margaret flipped through the book on the coffee table, one hand braced on the side of her stomach.  She could not panic, she must remain calm-- for the health and safety of her baby, she would need to stay focused and  _breathe_. "Shhh..." She told him as though he were with her already, "Shhh, my dear, there is nothing to be afraid of.  You are safe with me." 

As she whispered encouragements to the child (and perhaps to herself as well), and breezed through each page, looking for something that could cause the symptoms she was experiencing.

Margaret's hand paused at the corner of the page as she came across a description of an entropy curse-- this one recorded in the late 1400s.  A wizard had experimented on his apprentice, taking a clipping of the boy's hair and used it in a such a way as to discover the connection between pieces of the body and the whole.  The child died in the process, unfortunately, but a great deal was learned by the experience, including a full catalogue of his symptoms throughout the course of the experiment.

But Margaret was careful-- she knew better than to leave blood or hair behind.  That couldn't be what these pains were unless...

_Thomas_  was of her blood, which ran cold at the thought that harm had come to him, and she gripped her stomach tighter, heart thundering in her chest as panic set in.  What would it take?  Had his father killed him? Found a way to use Thomas' connection to her as a way to harm her?  Did he know she was carrying a second child? Would it have mattered? 

This time the pain that came was unlike the first two, a feeling of impossible tightening low in her gut that rippled outwards, and Margaret curled over her knees the best she could, planting her hands at the edge of the couch and forcing herself to  _exhale_.  This pain, at least, was familiar, though she dreaded the thought of what had induced the labor.  Was it simply the baby's time... or was he coming early...?

It hardly mattered.  There was no time to lose, and with Malcolm still on the road and her own health in peril-- or  _diminishing_  as it were-- she had to see to it that the child was delivered in full health before...

_..._ _before taking her revenge._

Margaret sat up straight as the contraction passed, waited a moment to regain her breath and pushed to her feet.  She didn't bother to grab the suitcase they'd packed two weeks ago and left by the door.  There was no point.  If Raith had used Thomas to put a curse on her, she would soon have no use for things like  _clothes_  or a toothbrush.

They'd decided on a hospital an hour outside of the city-- a small, rural affair where there would not be many patients, nor too much sophisticated technology that her magic would interfere with.  Without Malcolm with her, it would be easier to take a Way directly there than to try to find a neighbor to drive her-- particularly as her labor progressed and the  _curse_  worsened.  On the other hand, being stuck in the Nevernever, wracked in pain, dying, and trying to give birth sounded like a recipe for complete disaster- but it was the best solution available.

Margaret swallowed thickly as she left a note for her husband, the last message she would ever give to him.

> _Gone to hospital. I hope you've thought of a Name._
> 
> _I love you._
> 
> _-Margaret_

After a moment's hesitation, she slipped off the silver pentacle necklace she wore (the stone in the Leanansidhe's possession for safe keeping ever since Raith had shown an intense interest), and left it on top of the note with additional instructions:

> _P.S. Please see that he gets this.  -M_

The next contraction had her bracing against the kitchen table to stay upright, trying to wait it out despite a sudden, crippling pain dancing through every bone.   _That_  certainlywas not part of her labor, but with both coming at the same time, there wasn't much else to do but try to stay on her feet.  She made a noise from pursed lips, fighting between breathing and not breathing, but as the separate pains lessened by individual measures, she sucked in a gasp, and steeled herself for the journey.

She took her staff up from behind the front door and opened a Way.  Thankfully, no pains from the curse struck her down as she made her way through familiar paths of the Nevernever, though the occasional contraction stopped her in her steps several times.  Only a little further now... then the real work would begin.

Margaret couldn't entirely recall what had happened once she'd reached the hospital-- the doctors and nurses baffled by how a woman in labor had managed to  _walk_  to the hospital-- but she gave them the number of the hotel Malcolm was staying at, and they promised to call him to let him know the baby was on its way.

"Perhaps it is a good day to be born after all." She murmured to her stomach as she was seated in a wheelchair and taken directly to the maternity ward.

_And perhaps it would also be a good day to die_ ; but she did not add that thought to what she told her child.

"You'll be alright now, Mrs. Dresden." The nurse promised her cheerily, chalking Margaret's sudden silence and the draining of color in her face up to a contraction.

The one thing Margaret could be grateful for though was that this labor did not last nearly as long as Thomas' had.  Her first son had taken his time making his entrance into the world, putting his mother through a great deal of pain, frustration, and exhaustion in the process.  This one though was in as much of a hurry to greet the world as she was to meet him.

After five hours, it was clear to Margaret that she would not last the night-- and if her labor continued for much longer, she wouldn't have the strength to continue fighting for her child's life.  Her breathing was shallow but her heart was racing, and the doctors could find no recourse for the strange symptoms she exhibited, but Margaret simply tucked her head to her chest and pushed and breathed and did all the asked in the fervent hope that she would see him-- would  _hold_  him before the curse finished its terrible work.

Exhausted, half-dead and barely able to think more than five minutes ahead, Margaret could feel the last of her energy draining out of her.  One of the nurses held her hand, promising "just one more big push".  She put her faith into that promise-- every belief she ever held, every emotion, every ounce of Will that she possessed to make it  _true_ \-- to make sure this would be the last... because it was all she had left. 

Head and shoulders out, the rest of the child flopped like jello into the doctor's waiting hands.  "It's a boy!" He declared, holding the little wriggling alien thing up for his mother to see.  

Margaret didn't even have the strength to speak, but she smiled at him, watching him for that too brief moment. He drew breath.  He cried.  He was perfect.

She would have cried as well, or screamed, or begged the doctor to let her hold him, but there was no breath left in her, and when she saw the doctor hand her child to a set of beaming nurses to towel him off and wrap him in blankets, she knew she would never see him again.  She would never hold him.  The son she'd carried, and spoken to, and loved for longer than he had even been conceived....  She would never kiss him, or Name him, or even touch him skin to skin.

With that realization came another ounce of strength, spurred on by hot  _rage_.  She dropped her head back against the pillow and closed her eyes, tuning out the sounds of the hospital, of the doctors and nurses, of her son's crying (with great difficulty), of fears and worries for Thomas... she focused solely on one thing.  On  _one_  person.  The one who had  _taken_  both of her sons from her-- who had prevented her from being any kind of mother, good or bad.  Who had nearly killed her second child and may have already killed her first.

She thought of him and distilled all of her will, all of her anger into one clear and simple thought, one curse that would follow him until his death hundreds of years from now, one tiny word that carried everything he had ever done to her, taken from her.  As she released this word with all of her will behind it, Margaret drew her last breath and released it, sending the word out with it, as doctors needlessly scurried to try to preserve her already waning life.

_"_ _Starve_."


End file.
